


Drabbles

by punkpsyche



Category: Sean McLoughlin - Fandom, Septicplier, Septiplier - Fandom, jacksepticeye, mark fischbach - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Suicide mention, it's pretty sad, overdose mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 04:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7701673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpsyche/pseuds/punkpsyche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where I'm going to throw small works (like, three chapters and under). There will, however, be no smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabbles

**Author's Note:**

> A celebration is in order: I finally did something like the almost-adult I am should. I finished ALL of my summer assignment, attended a birthday party, and let my emotions be heard. I felt like writing this because I actually feel like I've managed to accomplish something decent in life.
> 
> Now, I have no fuckin' idea what this is, I basically pulled a random AU from my head and started writing. I like the way it came out, though, so I'm not exactly complaining (and yes, I am sorry for the title).
> 
> Have a good day!

The cold was nothing.

 

His mother had looked disappointed, and cried, at the mere mentioning of Ireland. His brother had nodded, dismissive, if not uncaring, or maybe caring too much. His friends – well, their responses had been mixed. A congratulations had been in order, a going away party to be thrown and then ceased by an onslaught on tears that the guests had brought. He had cried, too, but for all the wrong reasons; not for being missed, not for missing. Apologies had been dealt similarly to a set of cards. A single heart said a simple two-worded statement of his regret, an ace screaming about visitations, and love, and late night phone calls, and holidays to be brought together by plane tickets. He'd said neither, nor anything between, because he'd left for his flight and bid a farewell to the people that couldn't really understand why he was leaving. Had he explained? No. Did he want to? He couldn't be sure.

 

He'd texted the other boy as soon as the plane touched land. And then, he'd been met with silence, an uncomfortable sort that seemed to whisper about the mistakes he was making within the very moment, which had seemed to be suspended in time before he'd received an automated message in response. Had it done more than register in his mind as nothing, America may have been more than a distant memory that lay and ocean or so away. It had been weeks; four, maybe five or six, before he'd lost even a sliver of the overwhelming amount of hope he held, yet going back held about as much of the significance staying did. Either way, he hadn't had the luxury of explaining why he'd boarded the soonest plane and left his family and friends in a cloud of dust and empty reasoning.

 

The cold was something. His bones seemed frozen, immovable, and he had been chilled to the very core by the actual weather and the words he hadn't gotten back yet. Getting home now seemed to be yet another impossibility; no one to be called and paid, no jacket to protect his skin from the damaging effects of the cold along the thirty minute walk. The chances of a passerby picking up a college student were low, especially given the time. Mark glanced at his phone again. It read 8:20 in bold white letters, and had Jack's face plastered to the background. He wondered if the feelings he hadn't managed to remove were hopeless. He wondered if Jack was someone warm in Athlone, expecting Mark to text him or call him and tell him of why he hadn't managed to leave America quite yet, even if he had.

 

He wondered if Jack existed at all, though the thought was dismissed with memories of falling asleep over Skype at the edge of his mind.

 

Mark pulled his knees to his chest, hoping to conserve at least a bit of the warmth he still retained. Of course, he should have been on his trek home, his arms inside his shirt to avoid the sharp winds, but he had long since convinced himself that a taxi, or an uber, or _something,_ would find availability in the near future and cut his journey to a short ten minutes. 

 

From a distance, he traced the quick movements of a group that had just exited the university. They laughed, loudly and confidently, about something Mark suspected only those particular people could take part in. The group had yet to look his direction, yet instead stood in front of the door and gossiped back and forth about their thoughts. Their laughter had floated away, yet still stained the air with a peculiar sort of happiness, one that Mark assumed he would have felt in the presence of Jack, had the correct text ever come. Then, slowly, person by person, quiet comment by quiet comment, the group dissolved – one disappearing behind the university, others leaving for the parking lot, and one who, though he had no obvious reason to, stayed behind, and took homage in a chair roughly 20 feet from Mark's own. He wondered, briefly, what business the boy still had to attend to. Had it been himself, he would have gone home, doing his best to avoid the cold that dominated the air.

 

The boy lit a cigarette. Even in the darkness, Mark read his face easily; this boy, whomever he was, was not quite as happy as his previous laughter had insinuated. Resting his chin on his knees, Mark exhaled deeply, appreciating the small tinge of warmth his breath provided.

 

It felt as though a small eternity had passed before the other boy had moved. He had dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel, and left his boot on top of the spot where it lay. He had crossed his arms. Balled his jacket sleeves into fists. His eyes had, with a specific sort of curiosity that Mark didn't understand, surveyed the entire area, resting on this and that and the other thing, yet never on Mark. It seemed as though he'd failed to recognize that his presence had been accompanied by another.

 

The idea was immediately dismissed when the other stood and walked his direction. Mark watched him carefully, as if the man would be disrupted by the tiniest of movements. He, however, appeared to have gone without a care, and dropped himself into the chair across from Mark.

 

“Are you waiting for someone?”

 

Though his movements had come across as erratic, his voice was delicate and had a softness to it that suggested he only spoke if he found the words worthwhile. His lilt, however, struck a cord deep within Mark, that made his body tremble for something he couldn't identify. Nevertheless, Mark had little idea of how to answer the question. There was no longer an honest answer; anymore, he was waiting simply to wait for something he couldn't be for sure was ever coming.

 

“No, not really. Are you?”

 

“No. If you aren't waiting for someone, then why are you still here? You can't be comfortable – these chairs are hard, you don't have a jacket, and you're alone. You have no reason to stay.”

 

“I'm not ready to walk home yet.”

 

The stranger focused his eyes on the concrete, and dug the toe of his boot into despite having nothing to move, “That sounds like a pretty stupid idea, all things considered. I'm Sean, by the way.”

 

It was a coincidence. Nothing but a similarity between two people that Mark had stumbled upon within the same place, “I'm Mark. Why are you still here, Sean?”

 

He shrugged. It was halfhearted, careless, yet all in a way that said his reason still held significance, “Sometimes I just like to stay after classes are over and be alone. Why don't I just go home and be alone? I don't know. It's quiet here, and you can't here your neighbors complain about life through the wall. Why are you here, exactly, in Ireland? You're obviously an American, and I don't understand why you'd come to Athlone specifically.”

 

Alone, the question made Mark's stomach protest against the snacks he'd survived the day with. He'd resorted to eating almost nothing upon losing hope, and his health had been something to put second within recent weeks, “A person. His name is Jack. I came for him, because we had been in love, and he'd wanted me to come. So I did – and then he stopped responding to my messages. I'm only here for, well...”

 

Mark stopped speaking. He felt as though he was preventing himself from giving Sean a very stupid reason, though, in truth, he had no reason at all. His existence in Ireland was only based on the fact that he had no courage to leave.

 

“Forgive me for bein' so forward, but you sound like you could use a friend. Do you wanna grab somethin' to eat? I could take you home right after, or... I dunno, whatever you want. I want to be here for you, even just for tonight.”

 

Sean's kindness, though odd, resonated somewhere within Mark. It seemed to hum inside of him, flooding his blood with a specific kind of warmth and easing his anxieties with the thought of a friend. Undoubtedly, Sean had understood what to say to make his presence, though brief, an important factor in Mark's life. Of course, he had successfully done so, but how genuine his intentions were was to be questioned, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

 

“Do you have anything particular in mind? I can pay for just about anything.”

 

“Could we just avoid people?”

 

Sean laughed, though made it clear that he harbored similar thoughts.

 

 

***

 

 

Mark couldn't remember why he was laughing. It'd been that way for two hours – maybe three, four, five, as he couldn't remember that either – and the initial awkwardness of being in Sean's apartment as a stranger had faded into a sort of semi-sweet taste that left his tongue coated in alcohol and his heart bursting at the seams with happiness he'd actually forgotten how to feel. He wasn't counting each breath as one of his last. He wasn't crying out of a need to release what he'd stored. He wasn't gasping for air because he'd tried too hard to stay quiet. For once, he had left his intentions alone, devoid of an explanation, and allowed the moment to soak into his skin. The memory of this – if there was one, at least – would be enough. His actions no longer needed a reason to exist.

 

His hysteria had died down into a faint smile and teary eyes. He remembered nights like these with Jack. It'd never been in person, of course, but Mark had forced away the sleep that tugged at his limbs long enough to fall into a deafening sort of laughter that left him aching for encounters beyond a computer screen.

 

“Y'okay, Mark?”

 

Sean touched his fingertips to Mark's shoulder, and stared at him in a way that let Mark know he wouldn't believe any lies, given the skill to distinguish honesty and falsehood in his drunken stupor, “I think I'm sad again?”

 

“S'okay, Mark, s'okay. Come on, tell me wha's wrong.”

 

Sean had made a drastic effort to get closer to Mark, and thrown his free arm across his shoulders. His concept of self had disappeared; the idea that they had been strangers not long ago had vanished into fruity alcohol drinks and endless fruit snacks from Sean's cupboards. It had never dawned on Mark to ask why the man appeared to live on the same food he did.

 

“I miss Jack. You remind me of him.”

 

“Mark, s'okay. Jack's not worth it if he's willing to leave someone like you.”

 

He wasn't sure he believed Sean's consolation.

 

“'Sides, I don't know what kinda replacement I am, but we're friends now, 'kay? Automatic. You're drunk in my apartment so you're my friend now. Jack missed out. You wanna watch a movie, friend?”

 

Mark didn't nod or shake his head, but Sean had evidently taken his silence as an approval. He'd hit the play button on a random film, one Mark hadn't seen and didn't care much to watch anymore.

 

“Mark? Tell me about why you're here again. The beginning and the middle, too. Not just the end.”

 

Beginning his story was a feat in itself. The past year had been a fury of emotion – of late night skype calls, of phone calls, of text messages that depended on the timezone it was being sent into. Perhaps love had made him blind, or deaf, or an absolute fool who forgot to ask about how truthful certain words were. Jack had seemed nervous on camera every time, yet remained the more confident of the pair. He had been the first to utter a soft 'I love you' and hope for it to be sent his direction again, he had been the first to suggest that Mark uproot his life and go to a location he knew very little about. It had been Jack who insisted his love ran endlessly, and it had only been now, when prompted to explain Jack, that Mark understood the falsehood of such a statement. Endlessly was equivalent to the universe, and though Jack had properties that could be considered in such a fashion, he was not infinite, and neither had been his emotions.

 

“I met Jack online. I don't remember where. People always remember. We made fast friends. It lasted that way for awhile, weeks, maybe, and we started to work around timezones to find time to really talk and get to know each other. He was the first to come out – he was always more confident than I was – and I did it the same day and told him I was glad I found him. From there, I don't really know. It's blurry; everything moved quickly, and days seemed to fade into one entire mass of time. One moment we were confessing feelings and going steady and the next he was fidgeting on skype and said that he loved me. I moved to Ireland to be with him, to live with him, because he wanted me to. I left my family and my friends to miss me while I took a flight to somewhere I hardly knew anything about, and when I landed – the moment I landed – I told him I was here. I got back an automated message. It happens, you know. I wanted it to mean nothing. But he never answered – not there, not anywhere else. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe he got scared. Is it bad that I still love him, Sean? Is that bad?”

 

“No, it's not bad. It's normal, I think. Are you tired, Mark?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Come on. You can sleep with me. I have some clothes for you.”

 

Alone, the idea was ridiculous. Their relationship was based on nothing but a few hours, a few too many drinks, and a certain sort of generosity that Sean had offered for reasons unbeknownst to Mark. Perhaps the risk of what may lie under the surface had been what drew him into Sean's clothes, into Sean's bed. Perhaps it had been Sean himself. Mark didn't understand why the boy seemed equally composed and disastrous, why he had an air about him that said he often found himself in places he couldn't quite make sense simply because the shadows that lurked within his mind had led him there.

Easily, Mark could name traits of Sean he hadn't yet seen. Restless. Reckless. Terrified.

 

Mark couldn't place if it had been the dark or Sean speaking. Yet, nearly inaudible, an apology had been muttered.

 

 

***

 

 

His phone had gone off. The silence had been shaken and Sean had stirred ever so slightly, though only long enough to lay his hand flat against Mark's abdomen. Moonlight – soft and dim – drenched his sleeping counterpart, and Mark had let his eyes fade into a blur spawned by things he no longer had the heart to think of.

 

Every notification held potential. Every notification had eventually formed an unconscious routine: his heart would hit his throat, and each beat would seem to make his body tremble harder than the last. A headache would shake his skull with a grip far too tight. Aching. Dizziness. Nausea. Every notification had copied the affects of medications; it had become the antidote for something that it couldn't cure. A text, a call, an email – none could silence what the intrusive thoughts that understood how to shout so loud Mark couldn't tell himself to stop and take moment to breathe.

 

Sean stirred again. His hand fell away, and tugged the sheet covering half of his body closer. Mark wasn't sure how much it would sate the cold.

 

It had been no one but his professor.

 

Defeated, Mark let his head rest on a pillow. It had been no one that could put silence back into place.

 

 

***

 

 

_Mark,_

 

_I know it was probably not the best of ideas to leave you alone in my apartment, but I seriously needed to get to class. I woke up late and didn't exactly have time to make sure you'd be well on your way. I left some money on the counter in the kitchen so you could get a ride home. If you want to shower, there's towels in the hall closet, and you can borrow some clothes if you want to. If you're hungry, there's probably some sort of breakfast or lunch related things in the freezer. There's juice and crap in the fridge. Dishes are... somewhere. I'm not always very organized, considering I usually just live off take-out and snacks._

 

_Please, please forgive me for the rest of this letter._

 

_Last night, you mentioned Jack. I don't know how drunk you were, so I can't really know if you actually remember saying all of what you did, but I'd rather you know than be in the dark about it. I know liquor can say things we'd rather not while sober, and I hope that isn't the case, because I did want to understand why a stranger had come to a place that it quite literally god damned nowhere. Your reason was more than valid. I mean, I don't know how true that statement is, considering I make up some rather stupid excuses, but I believe that what you did makes sense to lots of people. That's why is hurts to say that I do know Jack, and I know him rather well. I may have said it sooner, yet you'll learn that I lack the courage to do a bunch of stuff, and that happens to be one of them. I couldn't look you in the eye and say what I knew would absolutely destroy you._

 

_Mark, I just want to make it clear, that Jack is sorry in ways you couldn't possibly fathom. Yet, the words will mean nothing. A word can do nothing more than be said, absorbed, and then forgotten. I just want to make it clear that he is damaged by this too, though not more so than you, and he has spent nights awake staring at the ceiling and listening to music that shook his bones because it was better than feeling pure, unadulterated self-hatred. You are the type of person who would forgive him even if he deserves the opposite of forgiveness. You are the type of person to ease his thoughts when he is still awake at 3:22 in the morning and contemplating whether it's a better idea to leave quickly or slowly. Though, Mark, you're fuckin' oblivious._

 

_I've run out of stupid excuses to give myself._

 

_Please don't accept any apologies. God knows I'll say them simply to say that I tried, but I don't want to be successful. I'm so tired of chasing a dream I cannot have._

 

_I was certain about absolutely everything until dreams of you understanding what goes underneath my skin left me in a place I wasn't sure I could recover from. I know relationships are meant to be built on understanding, on unconditional love, on that survival that runs through all, but I didn't have the heart to say I was scared. Not of you. Never of you. But, of saying what I hadn't said before: that I'm a sort of addict for anything that could kill me, and even though I hadn't ever reached the point of attempting anything before, the idea of losing you based on my own suicidal tendencies led me into a place where I couldn't escape what had already threatened me for years beforehand._

 

_I spent a week in the hospital. After that, I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything._

 

_I still love you. And I know you might rather see me get hit by a bus than to ever speak to you again, but I'll always be here for you. You'll always have a place with me._

 

  * _Jack._




 

 

***

 

 

“How?”

 

Mark had lost count of how many drinks he'd had. The room had started to wobble around five. His eyes burned, his head throbbed, his body ached. The horror story had become a necessity. A bathroom. A blood-stained sink. Red eyes. A pill, or two, or twenty-five. A ripped shower curtain. An emotion induced coma.

 

“Overdose.”

 

Mark thought he might puke. Maybe it was the alcohol. It wasn't the alcohol.

 

Though heavy vision – from grief, or intoxication, or both – Mark traced the movements of Jack. He'd succumbed to the same blurriness everything else had. He'd pulled his legs up onto the couch and crossed them. He'd started to light a third cigarette. His hands shook too much to make the lighter spark.

 

“That's stupid. God, that's fucking stupid. Why didn't you tell me?”

 

Was he slurring?

 

“I told you, Mark. I was scared.”

 

“Of what?”

 

He wasn't slurring. He was yelling.

 

“I didn't want you to fear me.”

 

“I couldn't have feared you.”

 

“That's not true.”

 

“You don't know what I can and can't fear.”

 

Silence. Slow, heavy, anxious. Jack had finally lit his cigarette. Mark could tell he'd really lost the capability of breathing without forcing himself to remember how.

 

 

***

 

 

Passion. Pure. Unaltered. Untouched. Raw. _Passion._

 

Jack touched his shoulder for the eighth time, and outlined small shapes in the skin. He was making an attempt at some sort of memorization, like he'd known of Mark's nonexistent plans to abandon the warmth and safety of his blankets, of his touch, of his constant gaze. Gently, Jack's lips had met his shoulder blade, and a mile long wave of comfort ached for more throughout Mark's core.

 

“Face me, please.”

 

Obeying, Mark rolled himself from one side to the other, and met Jack's delicate stare, “Are you okay?”

 

“There is no fear here. I have no reason to be anything but perfect.”

 

“That's debatable, Jack.”

 

“It's not debatable, Mark.”

 

Mark closed his eyes. Sleep was begging for him. A thirty hour survival game had been played with anxious confessions, a shaking set of hands, a heart that threatened to break his ribs while beating. Mark nestled himself into Jack's shoulder. He was still propped up by a mound of pillows.

 

“I still think it is.”

 

Jack had touched his lips softly to his own. Neither had moved during the millisecond exchange.

 

“You forgave me. It's not debatable.”

 

Mark had allowed his eyes to flutter open and stare into the hazy blue that Jack's had become, “Fine, then. I'll accept it if you're so insistent.”

 

“I am. Now go to sleep. You've been up too long.”

 

“I love you, Jack.”

 

“I love you too, Mark.”

 

“What if I don't want to sleep?”

 

“Too bad,” Again, their lips met. This time, however, it hadn't been as though the two were timid strangers wrapped up in bed together for the sake of feeling something. Rather, this felt correct, as though the test of endurance had finally found the worth it was meant to live up to.

 

Jack had smiled. Mark had smiled. Then, without a moment's notice, faded into a blissful sleep.


End file.
